Mirrored Souls
by Jesma
Summary: Garrus is unhinged by the death of Shepard and is slowly drinking himself to death. But when he finds himself an unintentional hero in a Citadel back-alley, he remembers the feeling of making a difference, and his love of the woman who showed him how.
1. Sensitivity Training

***/ I wanted to write a fic, but lacked direction. My husband suggested this prompt - what was Garrus up to between ME1 and ME2? We know he went to Omega, but there's about a year and a half unaccounted for. Will also explore squad activities on Omega with as much info as the game provided. Rated M to be safe, mainly for language. Some suggestive material. /***

Garrus panted, his breath ragged and gaspy as he half kneeled on the citadel floors. He had finally found a solitary place to run only to discover that this particular maintenance corridor had apparently been intended to be used for activities that required much less oxygen than a sprinting turian_. Like observing_, he thought to himself. His breathing slowly returned to a steady pace as he stripped off his service coat, folding it down over his hips, and stood to gaze out the cold viewports, bony and plated blue-gray torso glistening in the starlight. This part of the citadel wasn't lit this time of day, obviously part of some ancient hard coding that dictated day and night cycles on the non-residential sections of the massive space station. He wondered absently why the makers would have bothered with day-night cycles in an area like this, but that question was way beyond his pay grade.

This corridor was at least three klicks long, completely unbroken; a straight path with no other rooms or halls off of it. Half of the corridor was, floor to ceiling, quarter meter thick silicon glass polymer, offering a stunningly clear view of the nebula the Citadel was nestled in. At this rotation Garrus could just make out the distant blue pulse of the citadel mass relay as untold hundreds of personal transport, freight, and military ships were hurled into the black expanse by the primal forces harnessed in the ancient construct.

_This would be the perfect place to run IF I COULD BREATH_.

Garrus may have grown up on Palaven, the hot, arid Turian homeworld, but he'd been serving on cold starships and space stations for the past 14 years. The outer hull corridors of the citadel, like this one, were less than a meter from the icy vacuum of space, and were the few places in the Palavenian ward a space-blooded turian could exercise comfortably. Sure, he could go to a gym or private training center, but Garrus had always preferred to hone his body and skills in private – a tradition among ancient turian monks that had lost favor centuries ago. Vakarians were one of the few families that still passed this ancient tradition down through its warrior lines.

When Garrus had worked with C-Sec he had been primarily stationed in the very mixed race Lower Ward that housed most of the blue collar workers associated with the dozen or so embassies at the outskirts of the Presidium. The temperature had always been kept at Citadel standards, a full fifteen degrees lower than that preferred by the residents of the Palavenian ward. He savored the cold emanating off of the viewports as he sank to the floor, his limbs folding into the traditional meditative stance. _ Lower the heart rate, reduce body temperature, increase oxygenation, finish the run_. He sat there for several long minutes, eyes half closed, gazing into the cosmos.

Exhausted as he may be, Garrus was over half way through the run, and like it or not he had to reach the other side – quickly. Body finally returned to a state of rest, Garrus rose back to his feet and stretched his aching muscles. He checked his chrono anxiously, scowling in annoyance as it told him he would almost certainly be late. He started padding down the corridor, his gate picking up speed as he accelerated to a full run. He didn't sprint anymore – couldn't expend the oxygen. It wouldn't do for him to show up to training the color of an Asari.

Garrus was on his third of four segments of Spectre Training, a formal school that spent more time teaching diplomacy these days than actual combat skills. Garrus scowled, _oh how things have changed_. After the near galaxy ending crisis with Saren the council was no longer granting Spectre status to anyone that hadn't been through the training school – not even Commander Shepard's right hand. They all had to endure what he could only describe as the most thorough and excruciating interracial sensitivity training ever devised by sentient beings. _Fucking Asari,_ he thought to himself. He chuckled lightly at the thought – 13 weeks of trying to obliterate decades of stereotyping and all that had managed to sink in was a firm belief that Asari lived far too long for their own good. Anyone who had that much time to analyze the social implications of Batarian gas glands in a cruiser class starship couldn't possibly have anything important enough to say that it would interest him. Add to that, the schooling didn't guarantee an offer for Spectre status. Fewer than three of every 60-being graduating class was interviewed by the council, and then no more than one was ever granted Spectre status. Most returned to their old assignments or were tapped as diplomats.

The thought sent shudders down Garrus' spine. He hadn't help Humanity's sweetheart save the galaxy just to end up brown nosing some minor Hanar dignitary by day and laying loose Asari consorts by night, like every other stuck up sod in the Presidium. Not that the Asari consorts weren't beautiful – and sexy – but Garrus had always believed that if he was going to mate with a female he should at least be man enough to get her to bed of his own accord, not that of his credit account.

No, Garrus was a hunter. A predator. Millions of years of evolution had distilled the turian race into the perfect model of an organic killing machine – rows of razor sharp teeth, three inch talons, natural armor plating, and impressive strength. Opposable thumbs and high intelligence didn't offer enough civility to shake _his_ predatory nature. His happiest moment in life was hearing the heat sink pop and steam after he'd squeezed off his last sniper shot. Or when his claws were three inches deep in a foe's throat. Or when he slammed plates with an equally predatory and visceral turian female. Or saving the galaxy with a fiery, fierce, yellow haired human by his side.

His mandibles flared slightly, the turian equivalent to a human smile, at the thought of Shepard. Her drive and passion had awakened in him an overwhelming need to… _do something_. After 7 years in Citadel Security a ten minute conversation with her had convinced him to abandon his caseload, his job, his life, to chase down one bad guy. It had been the right choice, in the end, but he could just has easily sat on his backplates and let some younger, bright eyed gun chase after her in his place. But, there was something about _her_. She had filled him with such certainty, and confidence, and a sense of duty he'd never before felt. As long as she was there, they all had hope. They couldn't fail. He'd never felt more alive.

Garrus' body was screaming from the low oxygen in this corridor, but his heart made a grateful leap at the sight of exit door drawing ever closer. Even as the hope of oxygen spurred him onwards, the sinking dread of walking into the so-called Spectre training ten minutes late, doubled over and gasping for breath made him want to drag his feet.

Garrus finally reached the end of the corridor and palmed the door to go through it. As he made his way through the snaking back passages of the Citadel's rarely travelled maintenance passages, he gratefully sucked down air, the richer oxygen as he approached Palavenian Ward proper rewarding his screaming lungs and muscles. He wanted to sit and pant for an hour, but he was due in class by now. Hate it as he might, if he had any hope of ever becoming a Spectre himself he'd have to bite the bullet and get through it.

Garrus burst through the doors of his STC Field Command 3C course a full ten minutes after it began. 59 pairs of eyes, plus the instructor trained on him, and more than a few human jaws dropped and turian eyebrows arched as Garrus realized, along with the rest of them, that he was still half nude. The tinge of his grey pallor changing from a healthy blue to a sickly green in the span of a heartbeat, Garrus grabbed the top half of his service uniform and scrambled to put it on, his sharp claws ripping a gash in the shoulder as he fumbled with the foreign material. So mortified by his public humiliation, Garrus didn't even look to the front of the class where the guest speaker stood, silent, grinning ear to ear.


	2. Lost in Translation

When the rest of the Spectre hopefuls filed out of the lecture hall Garrus stayed in his seat, slid down so low the crest of his fringe was barely visible above the back of the row in front of him. He was mortified. It had only taken a handful of breaths for him to realize that there in the flesh she stood, _his_ commander, putting on her best diplomat face preaching the importance of understanding racial dynamics when leading a mixed race squad. She'd made eye contact with him and smiled warmly when she recounted the then-painful, now humorous story of how one can't assume that Asari only pursue males, and what you think is friendly chat between girls can mean something entirely different. The few Asari in the room blushed a darker shade of blue, but even they laughed. She'd thrown in Kaiden's pining, stuttering, shocked response to the whole situation for good measure, which had cut most of the tension from the room.

Human as she may be, Shepard was highly regarded by all of the races – for her tenacity as a warrior, strength as a leader, and accepting manner. It was well known her crew was a mix of many races, and that she'd treated them fairly. _More than fairly,_ Garrus mused. _She wasn't just our commander, she was our friend._ Before he knew it the class had come to an end, and the weight of his embarrassment came crashing back down on him. He sank into his seat and pretended to be checking something on his omni-tool. To his surprise it was flashing a message – from Shepard. _How did she message and lecture at the same time?_

_Garrus,_

_Don't leave yet._

_-Shep_

Short and sweet. He glanced around the room, furtively. Most of the other candidates had filed out. Shepard was grasping hands with Instructor Helmer, saying something. She released his hand, nodded amicably then he too left the room. She turned and her sapphire eyes bored straight into him. Garrus' mandibles flared happily. He was too glad to see her to be embarrassed anymore. So he'd stumbled into a course for elite soldiers half dressed and shamefully late. There were worse things. _Like Reapers_ his subconscious mind suggested. _Yeah, much worse things_.

"Sorry, Commander, I didn't mean to fluster you. I know human women aren't accustomed to seeing Turian men in all our glory," a warmly familiar, if gruff voice called out from the rows of chairs.

Jayne Shepard smiled at the snide comment from her dear friend. She hadn't seen in him months. Between diplomatic functions, Geth cleanup, and council hearings she'd all but completely lost touch with those of her crew that had left the Normandy since the Citadel attack. She was glad the time in this miserable schooling hadn't taken a toll on his sense of humor.

"All your glory? If only I were so blessed, Garrus," she responded in kind. They each chuckled lightly, the mildly flirtatious joke warming the air between them.

"It's nice to see you laugh," she continued. "I was starting to worry you were taking yourself seriously again."

"Ooohh…. Ouch, Shepard. I don't know that my ego could take any further wounding today. I yield."

"Don't let it be said a Turian never surrendered to a human".

"My ancestors weep in shame", Garrus answered, mocking a stereotypical honorbound turian clansman.

The two friends chatted and laughed, an armslength between them in the empty lecture hall.

"I've had you dismissed from the rest of your courses today. You'll be receiving top marks in all of them, courtesy of yours truly and my irresistible heroic charm," Shepard commented, more than a little sarcasm seeping into her voice.

"Oh?" Garrus' mandibles twitched in surprise. "What's the occasion?"

"Me, taking my first day – well, half-day – off since the Council made me a Spectre."

"I'll drink to that," Garrus rasped.

"You read my mind, buddy."

"_TERMINUS_?" Garrus almost spat the word, as if the faster it left his the sooner he could wash it down with the foul smelling green alcohol he was swirling around a tumbler. "Why in the Spirits Wisdom would they send you there?"

He spoke in plain Galactic and Shepard understood him, but her in-ear translator notified her that she should take his "in the Spirit's Wisdom" comment as the human English colloquialism "in God's name". As if she couldn't have guessed that.

"Alliance patrols are going missing. _Something_ is out there." Shepard took a long sip from her beer and pulled a face. _I don't know why I keep expecting it to get better,_ she thought to herself. The non-turian options in this particular dive Garrus had chosen left much to be desired. She couldn 't complain too much, though. No one recognized them here – or if they did, Garrus' hulking, stern turian demeanor warded them off.

Garrus frowned. "Sounds dangerous. Wish I could go with you, Shepard."

Shepard frowned. "Don't say that, I'm trying to convince myself it's a bunch of hackneyed Batarian slavers." All humor drained from her face and she cast her eyes down to stare blankly into her empty beer, like trying to find clarity in a crystal ball. "Not that there's some unimaginable evil lurking in the darkness out there."

Neither friend said anything for a long time.

When Shepard stared into her glass all she saw was destruction, death, reapers, protheans, and a thousand other horrific things she couldn't begin to explain or understand, courtesy of the beacons that had burned their message into her mind. She was ever haunted - it seemed not even a day went by without some empty moment being filled with a sudden, terrible flash of someone else's memories. She looked around the horrible dive bar Garrus had somehow found tucked deep into scantly traveled corridors in the Palavenian Ward, hoping that if she burned the purple neon swirls into her eyes they'd block out everything else.

They were tucked into a half booth for two on the opposite wall of the bar. Garrus had picked the spot - clear visibility of the whole place. Not from either one spot the pair was sitting, but together they had it covered. Shepard sat facing the door, the bar on her left side, while Garrus kept a watchful eye on a particularly large group of well dressed turians in the dimly lit rear of the establishment. Like any seedy bar, the liquor rack was the best lit area, with real white lights illuminating the multi-colored - and multi-languaged - labels. The rest of the place was cast in a violet neon the was flattering to no one, perhaps save an Asari. Being in an almost exclusive Turian ward, it was no surprise that all but a couple of the 25 or so occupants were Turian as well.

Garrus frowned – or rather, his faceplates furrowed together and shadowed his eyes in what could only be a frown. He tapped a talon on the inside of his boot. He casually watched Shepard swirl the dregs of her glass, look around blankly, play with her fringe – no, _hair – _and eventually rest her forehead on the filthy bar table. She looked tired; more than tired, exhausted. Like the weight of the galaxy had finally buckled her to the ground. They had been in this seedy bar for hours, slowly drowning their worries, reminiscing about past battles, exploits. Friends loved and lost. Sad as the conversation got at times, Garrus couldn't help but feel _at home_ for the first time in months.

He was nearing a dozen drinks on the day, and the alcohol had long since wrapped him in a warm haze. He reached a clawed hand out to where Shepard's head lay on the table, and gently brushed her yellow hair back from her face, as if digging to find her eyes. She turned her head slightly, revealing a contented smile to him. His mandibles flared. _She is so beauti…_

The thought stopped short before it had even finished forming, and he put it out of his mind. He was turian. Turians didn't think about humans like that. Well, except for the half million or so turian readers of Fornax, but Garrus had never counted himself among that group. No, he was just feeling warm and fuzzy because of the alcohol, and because he _respected_ her so much. _Yeah, respect. 'Cuz she's my Commander," _he tried to convince himself.

She suddenly lifted her head off the table and grabbed his three-fingered hand, eyes bright. "Hey!" she slurred, "Ima gon go got more drinks." She stood, teetering, but managed to make her way over to the bar and convince the attendant she was either too hot or too important to cut off now.

Garrus watched her, as he did in the old days. Always on her six. _Heh, I'd like to be ON her six right about now..." _his drunk, inner voice said. He shook off the thought. _Damn, I really need some nice turian companionship, and soon._ He was about to start eye-sampling the local faire when he noticed a white-marked turian male more drunk than he was slam into the bar beside Shepard.

Garrus studied the new turians markings. _A Durnakian_. Each Turian clan had its own paint pattern and color. The thick lined mask painted across Garrus' nose and mandibles marked him as a member of house Vakarian. Each line of the intricate Turian tattoos denoted a connection or link to an important turian from history, recent or distant. When a Turian accomplished great deeds his progeny would take his first name as a surname, and start a new house. Vakarian was one of the oldest Palavenian houses. Durnakian, the house of the belligerent and highly intoxicated turian all but groping Shepard at this point, was actually a branch of house Vakarian centuries before. Durnak Vakarian had been a respected scientist and scholar, and key member of the team that had created the first turian mass effect powered engine core. While House Vakarian continued to produce military commanders and respected warriors, the Durnakian line distilled doctors, businessmen, scientist, thinkers.

Garrus could tell from the Durnakian's stance, lack of scars, and slender frame that this one had continued his line's tradition. He wasn't a fighter. If he was going to start messing with Shepard, then he was way out of his depth.

Still, Shepard was drunk. He got up from his seat and hovered in the shadows, far enough away to not be stalking, but close enough to rip his soft plates to shreds if he even so much as twitched the wrong way.

Shepard was drunk, but not so drunk that she didn't notice the hulking white marked turian breathing heavily into the top of her head. She moved away a little, testing the waters. He moved with her. _Guess I'm going to have to deal with this…_ she thought to herself. The bartender was still mixing their drinks, so she waited.

"You're so squi—uh, s-soft looking," he slurred.

Shepard didn't make eye contact. "Uh, thanks, I think."

Apparently he thought that was funny, because the Durnakian burst into laughter. "Cmon sw-sweety, soft is nice." He chuckled drunkly again, "like Asari. They're real *hic* ly soft too." As if suddenly remembering his eyes and mandibles flared, "They have soft lips!" He exclaimed. More giggles. "On their, their faces," Giggling. "And other places…"

Garrus didn't let him finish. He appeared out of nowhere and forcefully injected himself between Shepard and the white faced turian. "I think you've told the lady just about enough, why don't you sit down."

Shepard was surprised how steady Garrus looked on his feet, and how clearly he was speaking. Obviously some turians were much better at holding their liquor than this particular…. Whelp. She hadn't thought of him as small when he was towering over her, but now that he stood dwarfed by Garrus' hulking, strong frame he looked pathetic.

Shepard realized a little bit too late, though, that alcohol equaled liquid courage in turians as well as humans, as a poorly aimed fist sailed past Garrus' head and nailed her squarely in the eye.

Garrus had to give the Durnakian clansman credit for having the courage to swing, but the second the other man's fist had flown past his head and nailed Shepard he almost felt sorry for the drunk bastard. Shepard stumbled from the blow, but took it standing up. _Tough bitch_, thought Garrus, not for the first time. Garrus didn't wait to see how she recovered, though, he quickly snapped his attention back to the very drunk, and now backpeddling turian in front of him.

"That was…. Unwise", Garrus stated calmly, in his deep throaty voice, advancing on the turian faster than the other could retreat. He backed the smaller turian into an Elkor, which brought him up short. Nowhere left to retreat to, he started to stammer. "_Vakar_, brother, it was an acci-, axdent friend." The smaller man held up his hands in front of him, surrendering. Garrus felt a bad taste rise in his mouth and had the sudden urge to spit on the pathetic excuse for a turian cowering in front of him. "_Durnak,_ you are no brother of mine. You can't control your drink, you strike females, and now you cower like a beaten varren." The foul taste was overwhelming, he spat forcefully on the ground by the turian's feet. The coward flinched. Words clipped and harsh, Garrus continued. "You do not deserve the marks on your face, _gornacht_."

Shepard's face had exploded in pain when she'd first been struck, but thanks to alcohol and years of taking blows to the face she shook it off without too much effort. The blood from a small gash on her right brow was starting to run into her eye, though, and she wiped at it, annoyed more than pained. Garrus had pinned the cowering turian between him and an Elkor – who acted like it was no bother – and a smile tugged at her lips as _her_ turian defended her honor, spewing venom at the other man in a mix of Galactic and Turian. Her in-ear translator failed to translate one word – _gornacht _– which she noticed elicited a strong, and very negative response.

If Garrus had been aiming to rile up the other turian, he had succeeded. The younger, smaller man went from cowering in fear to lashing out, talons free, in a blind rage. He rushed into Garrus with just enough force to drag them both to the ground, but Garrus was much less drunk, and much stronger. He easily kicked the smaller man off of him and regained his footing. Shepard grabbed Garrus by his bony collar and pulled him back – a physical contact usually reserved for turian parents chastising or holding back their young – but her particular breed of manhandling didn't bother him. She pushed past him, swung her right leg back, then brought it forward with practiced momentum. Her toes, foot, and shin collided with various soft plates along the turian's midsection. He had been about to regain his footing, but collapsed back down to the ground, clutching his abused midsection and spewing what Shepard could only guess was a colorful monologue of turian curses.

It was then that the pair of them realized that the atmosphere in the bar had turned… somewhat hostile. Other white-faced turians had risen from their seats, scattered across the bar, and were taking a strong interest in what the two of them were up to – not solely Durnakian, but many related houses, some Garrus knew to have bad blood with house Vakarian. He glanced at Shepard, grimacing at the gash leaking bright red blood on her forehead. "Shepard, we might want to think about…. Leaving." She silently nodded her agreement and the two of them moved towards the door, making sure to not appear too much in a hurry. They had nearly exited when the Durnakian regained his feet and called after Garrus.

"What's the matter, _Vakar_, too afraid you'll shame your house in front of your _polstak tira."_

Shepard heard the way Garrus' breath caught in his throat. She could practically see him bristle at the words, but her in-ear translator had apparently failed again. It translated the words as "partner of convenience" but offered no information as to the significance of the phrase. Then a familiar look came across her friend's face. His mandibles flared slightly in a subdued turian smile, and he pulled back his mouth plates to reveal rows of razor sharp teeth. She would jokingly refer to it as his "murder face", but amongst turians the facial posture sent a much clearer message. It said, _I will destroy you, and enjoy doing it._ Shepard was pretty sure somewhere in there was a _and I'll eat your corpse when I'm through_ subtone, but she'd never actually heard of any turian cannibalism. Maybe the face was enough.

She and Garrus let the doors to the seedy turian bar slide shut again. Half a dozen turians had gathered around the one Garrus had called _gornacht_. Shepard made a mental note to ask him what that meant, but she didn't have much time to ponder it before the both of them were enveloped in a fray of claws, plates, leg spurs, and one very angry, very determined, and very fast human biotic.


End file.
